My defiant nature rebels against fatalism. Yet I can’t deny the voice, which whispered in my ear before I could think. I didn’t know where it came from. I only knew it felt real and I had to listen to it. I consider it a heavenly blessing.

It was the voice of a dream, saying, “Something will happen, and it will change everything.”

This keeps me going. I live for what can happen, not for what is.

Writing is the only thing that gives me a true sense of meaning.

So, I listened to the voice.

As a child, I wrote, illustrated, and stapled a magazine called Blaze after Blaze Summers. When I was 12, I wrote my first chick lit. I played out and shot TV series with my dolls. There was always a project.

I met Dostoevsky at 17 and he changed me forever. I wrote a very different novel and formed the core of another, which required a more skilled me. Ideas multiplied. I lived them out thousands of times in my head.

I kept trying to find my writer’s voice.

And it took me years to realize there was only one thing I had to do: be honest.

Scream. Bleed out onto the page. Let it all out.

From then on it felt easy.

It became my goal to show the inner voice, which guides me, is real.